


Beaten

by sshysmm



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-27 00:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21383413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/pseuds/sshysmm
Summary: After a night of debauchery, Jerott has locked himself in a French motel room with the band's rider. Luckily, Lymond has just returned - and he knows how to pick a lock.--Written for Whumptober 2019, set in the Band AU I've been writing (see collections).--There's 31 of these ficlets and I apologise profusely for burying other work in the tags. I will *always* tag these as 'the band au' and you can usethis nifty extension (ao3rdr)to block the tag if this isn't your thing and isn't what you want to see in the Lymond tags!
Kudos: 2
Collections: Ficlets in the Lymond Band AU for Whumptober 2019





	Beaten

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted on tumblr, October 28 2019.](https://notasapleasure.tumblr.com/post/188651306079/whumptober-28)

“Did you know he could do that?” Danny Hislop glanced at Adam for a moment, but was loath to look away from the spectacle for long.

Adam stuck his bottom lip out and shrugged, his grey eyes round and also fixed on the action. “Nope. That’s a new one.”

Lymond had strode over to Danny and removed a metal pin from the mound of strawberry curls that rode the top of the keyboardist’s head. Danny, who liked the world to think this bouffant look was maintained by hair spray and force of will alone, did not dare object: Lymond had business to attend to, and Danny needed to see it unfold with the same need that drew people to slow down and rubberneck at accidents on the motorway. The curls would just have to hold themselves in place for a few moments. Danny tossed a soft, rounded chin and blinked white-lashed eyes rapidly. It was a pleasure to work with someone who could surprise one as often as Lymond did, and Danny knew that while Jerott Blyth had worked for far longer with the master, he was about to face a surprise of his own.

Impeccable in a navy-black outfit that sparkled with blue highlights in the dawn of the Hotel Campanile carpark, Lymond crouched before Jerott’s door and wriggled the bent pin in the lock. He did not shake with rage; he had showed barely any emotion when Danny had reported the loss of their lead guitarist and the rider that was meant to serve the entire band for duration of the recording session. But all of the fearsome intellect and will that Danny - and the world - admired was now brought to bear on the minute point of the hair-pin. Lymond’s elbow and fine fingers worked tirelessly to find the right spot, and when he did, both Danny and Adam held their breath.

Jerott had been to see his wife play what he had supposed would be a solo set - a fundraiser for political aims that were noble but doomed to failure. Confronted instead with adoring guest acts, performance poets, collaborations, fans dancing on stage and Marthe looking happier than he had ever once seen her in their life together, Jerott had stormed his way back to the studio through every drink and every willing groupie this side of the Oise. It showed in his parking: a grazed red Lamborghini Espada had been left at a jaunty angle, half on the paved carpark, half in the shrubs and box hedge that formed a little garden around it. Various lacy garments hung from the near-side mirror, an unedifying tally that was crass even by Jerott’s standards.

The motel door swung out and Lymond stood for a moment, a dark-clothed frame in a dark doorway. The smell that emerged was hot, stale and heavy with sweat and sweetness: sugar and acid, alcohol and smoke.

“Get up,” said Lymond to the room.

The response did not reach Adam and Danny, who found themselves joined by Archie. Archie went to move closer and Adam grabbed his thick arm and gave the drummer a warning shake of the head.

Lymond stepped over the threshold. “I said: get up.” He seemed enveloped by the shadows inside the room now, which left only his golden hair glimmering like a harvest moon trapped in the doorway.

The response this time was audible: Danny’s pale brows shot up, for no one spoke to the master like that within Lymond’s hearing. Adam rolled his eyes and sighed. “For God’s sake, Jerott…”

With no warning they could deduce, the morning calm was shattered utterly when Lymond swayed his body to one side and allowed a half-full bottle of Merlot to sail past him and into the carpark. It broke apart in a sodden explosion, spattering the clothes of the onlookers and driving fragments of green glass out in a wide arc around the bloody wound it made on the ground. Before Lymond the shadows seemed to ripple, and Lymond moved again: with a crack and a grunt someone’s fist made contact with someone’s face, and Lymond stood firm.

“Oh, shit. We should, we should do something,” Adam made a reluctant movement.

Danny, who was bemoaning the stains on impeccable white jeans, threw up two large freckled hands: “Absolutely not. He deserves all that’s coming to him for ruining these!”

It seemed that Jerott was struggling to understand Lymond’s message, which at present revolved around abstinence, discipline, and not giving the tabloids undue reasons to write about the tensions among their outfit. Jerott would attempt to stand and swing a dissenting fist or missile, and Lymond would beat him right back onto the ground, to lie in the detritus he had filled his room with.

A lit cigarette must have interacted with a potent area of spilled alcohol during one of these exchanges, and flame flared from the floor. Danny, Adam and Archie saw Jerott gasp and spit some mixture of vodka and blood from his lips in the orange glow. Without any sense of urgency, Lymond turned from the room and picked up the fire bucket by the door. He pirouetted back to face Jerott and the sand and cigarette butts from the bucket formed a cascade that poured over man and fire and wreckage.

Lymond leaned over Jerott’s sprawled form, one hand wrapped in the sand-sprinkled crust of his top. Whatever words he chose for the sermon, Jerott seemed to pay attention now, his black eyes raised to Lymond’s face with something almost like fear (_not quite that_, thought Danny; there was admiration, or something else there too). Then Lymond released him, beaten, and turned to stalk past his audience without so much as a glare of acknowledgement.


End file.
